


Not Fast Enough

by RosieWell



Series: Eleanor Allen Series [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Aggression, Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Violence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Crime Fighting, Dark Character, Darkness, Death Threats, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Near Death Experiences, Original Character Death(s), Protective Barry Allen, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Redemption, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Stalking, Tension, Thriller, barry allen sister, creepy eobard thawne, metahuman villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieWell/pseuds/RosieWell
Summary: Eleanor "Allen" Winslow was anything but an average Central City citizen. In fact, she's the biological daughter of the Allen Family, but due to complications was taken away by child services a couple of years after birth. Living an ordinary life in the shadows of her adoptive parents, the Winslows, Eleanor couldn't think of what could possibly go wrong with her life.However, she was fatally incorrect. Due to what happened to Barry Allen on the fatal night of the particle accelerator explosion Eleanor somehow finds herself slipping into comatose after also being struck upon by lightning as exact of her brother.Nine months? Try one month.Finding her adoptive parents murdered by a mysterious streak, it isn't a coincidence when another speedster arises in Central City known as the Flash. Having little hope in justice, Eleanor takes up the mantle of the Silver Flash.Flash against Flash. Allen against Allen.Will the truth be revealed in time? Or is there more to the story than the Allens presume?SEASON ONE





	1. Prologue | Nine Months Ago

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story following my very own original female character, Barry Allen's sister; Eleanor Allen. This is HER story, how she meets Barry, how she fits into the show's timeline. A very violent/angry driven character in the beginning. And you all will see why she is the way she is. 
> 
> 1\. Dabbles of the main show plot line.
> 
> 2\. Eleanor Allen has her very own plot line. I hate OCs whose lives stop because the plot line of the show.
> 
> 3\. I'll try to keep the characters true to themselves.
> 
> 4\. When the story starts, it's in the middle of season one. Barry and Eleanor are already enemies, but he knows nothing of having a sister, nor does she of having a brother. They don't know whose under one another's masks.
> 
> 5\. This story has been published elsewhere, but I recommend reading it here for the full EDITED version.

 

 

" _Some call it stalking,_

_I say walking just extremely close behind._

_I'm sure if I sat down and asked you,_

_well you really wouldn't mind_ ..."

**UNHEALTHY OBSESSION**

 

 

**|** PROLOGUE **|**

**NINE MONTHS AGO**

 

**DR. HARRISON WELLS** had a soothing feeling of patience as he awaited outside the hospital room of Barry Allen. He looked over him from time to time; day after day. How could he not? Fifteen years swallowing by, waiting, nothing has changed. But, something about this current Tuesday morning he decided to visit Barry that had been different from the other weeks that would come to follow, something that even shook Wells' to the core. The doctors were flooding Barry's room in sense of urgency, surgeons to the medical staff and even nurses. Babbling could be heard out the crook of the closed door. Wells couldn't exactly pin point what was happening, but the doctors within the room seemed vocal about their disagreement on Barry's ongoing coma. And that was not something Wells could openly afford to have.

 

“Didn't I tell you to add another fresh IV?” The voice of a female doctor demanded, sternly. All Wells could do was bat a roll of his dark eyes, amateurs, but that didn't quite comfort the anxiety tightening his grip on the arm rest from pondering the 'what if situation' of the doctors not knowing what they were doing as professionals. Nonetheless, the bickering babble continued. “A day lost is another day the patient's body loses nutrients!” The woman shouted, again.

 

This time it was a man who answered, voice gruff and jade, “Migie specifically told me to wait on her instructions, not yours!”

 

“Migie isn't head of staff. I am!” The woman's voice came, again. More louder.

 

The loud, ongoing dispute caught Wells' concern, safe to say. Idiots. Idiots. Idiots. His lips curled into a flat line, the thoughts persisting to form actual words. Seeing as the doctors, one by one, began to exit from the doorway, Wells grabbed the forearm of a female nurse that attempted to pass by, yielding, but not threatening or to hurt, and demanded to know what the matter was about. He demanded, “Excuse me? May I ask what the matter is with the Barry Allen boy?” He kept his tone cool in the back of his throat, controlled as he spoke, despite wanting to fleet to the brunette doctor mercilessly.

 

She didn't notice, however, chalking it up to her eyes watering jadedly. The woman sucked in her bottom lip, caught between her teeth and released a sigh that displayed her exhaustion with how things were persisting regarding the patient, alleging this man must have heard all of it. Looking down at the disabled man, she said, “There are only so many qualified doctors prepped for this sort of situation and our attention has been jumping back and forth considering another similar attack—just days ago, actually—on another one of our patients.” 

 

Her explanation snatched the thick brow of Dr. Wells, his mind immediately drowning from the fascination of the astronomical idea of another lightning attack on a patient the night of the Particle Accelerator explosion. His brain twisted, unaware which emotion to specifically allow himself to feel. Confusion? _Indeed_ , yes. The likely hood of the event being an coincidence with Barry Allen's accident on a scale of 1-to-10 was zero to none. Wells did not believe in coincidences—not when you could do the things he could. Recollecting his mind, he flickered his eyes, his large hand steadily uncapping from the brunette's skinny forearm.

 

She curtly smiled, one of sympathy. “If it means anything, we apologize for the inconvenience.” 

 

The doctor simply carried on down the narrowed corridor and deserted Wells in his thoughts, to his own mind, which was like black poison to the brain. Goosebumps antagonized his arms and crawled underneath his long sleeve shirt; an uncanny feeling. Dr. Wells adjusted his hand grip over his armrests and began to mobilize himself down the corridor, peaking discreetly into each nearby hospital room until he spotted what appeared in his eyes as the correct patient. Average female, unconscious. Blonde, loose curls glimmering down her bare neck. It wasn't too hard to distinguish, because of the large attention the patient's room was receiving, and Wells stalked from afar, sinuously rolling back as the medical staff emptied out the room, one body after another, until he was able to strike up the opportunity.

 

Carefully, Dr. Wells kept mute as he wheeled himself through the doorway of the female patient's room and shut the door closed with a throw of his hand. It was at the feel of his presence the atmosphere was drained of optimism and replaced with stiff, dark energy; eerie energy. His limbs twitched at the moment he gradually rose from the leather seating of his wheelchair; the manipulated muscles in his thighs and calves flexed to stretch, and with a whip of his fingers, he flicked off his black-rimmed glasses and tossed them carelessly onto the seat. His eyes were hard rimmed and fixed, so much that it was if he was no longer staring, but that they were rusted into place. Moving across the room, Wells made sure he got his hands on the clipboard that withheld all the patient's medical records and basic information, everything he wanted to know about her. At his fingertips.

 

At first, the information was casual, nothing to bend backwards over. Date of birth, age, etc. Wells almost chuckled to himself under his breath, nothing amusing at all. He couldn't believe his near-unstable reaction just minutes ago. Continuing down a long list of inked words, all useless to what he knew, it wasn't much of eye opener, until he finally reached the third page, the side of his finger prepped to turn the page to the fourth as he read along the last words. Those last words. The details of her coma; the night of accident and duration of the comatose. 

 

The exact of Barry Allen.

 

It was on that very day and that specific moment something inside Wells turned further down the line, more deprived, and an unhealthy desire to know who the young patient was became his ideal obsession for the time being. Every day spent after that moment, collected into one month, all the visits were focused solely on the patient; learning her name "Eleanor Winslow", where she worked, where she lived, who her family was, and not adoptive parents — that was the piece of information that magnified his interest into the all consuming hatred he felt for so many years, so many centuries, so high it reflected like hell's fire in his black pupils.

 

_Eleanor Allen_.

 

His eyes became infuriated, his icy cobalt irises draining to an eerie, red glow that illuminated his entire sockets. Wells felt the anger pulsing through his veins and caused one of his hands to fly back and whack the hospital room chair across the room. Wood shattering. His glare, hot and heavy, snapped towards the limb body behind him; the woman sprawled defenselessly and vulnerable, unaware of the storm that was about to hit her. Speeding over, room splintering into a red shade for a mere second, Wells immediately lifted a hand, which began to vibrate on impulse.

 

But, Wells couldn't do it. As much as the tips of his fingers came in contact with her heaving chest, every second he heard her breathing another breath of life, the heartbeat of an Allen, he couldn't find it in his might to shatter her heart into pieces. Kill her then and there, without her even knowing what he was doing. Not because of sympathy, but strategy. To manipulate her. To make her do his bidding. Bide him time. Bring Barry Allen to his knees together and at the same time, each will achieve what they've always wanted, but only one would walk away. Thawne, certainly. Dr. Wells knew the day would come when Eleanor and him would cross paths and that day would come very, very soon, sooner than anybody will think or anticipate, and that reckoned a grueling grim to pass over his face, sickly twisted, as his eyes sinisterly tumbled to the young woman's face.

 

“ _I promise you I will kill you, Eleanor Allen,_

_then I will kill your brother in the most grueling yet simplest of ways._

_Because let's be clear; nothing is forgotten._

_There will be a reckoning_.” 


	2. Hello, Barry Allen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1.We all get a flashback to one of Eleanor and Barry's many battles.
> 
> 2\. Surprise, surprise. Eleanor actually has a day job.
> 
> 3\. Beware: discreet Iris hate from my OC (I love Iris, though <3)
> 
> 4\. Is the reverse flash stalking Eleanor Allen?
> 
> 5\. Something weird occurs when Barry and Eleanor meet for the first time, hm ...
> 
> 6\. SOME CISCO RAMON LOVEEEE <3

**"** _Yeah, and I don't like talkin' to strangers,_

_so get the fuck off me, I'm anxious._

_I'm tryna be cool, but I may just go ape shit,_

_say "fuck ya'll" to all of y'all faces_. **"**

**ME, MYSELF, AND I**

 

 **|** CHAPTER ONE **|**

**HELLO, BARRY ALLEN**

 

 

** THREE MONTHS AGO   
**

**_CENTRAL CITY RESTED_** _calmly under the canopy of luminous stars amongst the jet-black horizon. Daylight had fallen and the city had submitted to a quiet abyss, but even in the encase of darkness the pearly moon and stars glistened livelier than it has ever; a reminder of light under the name of The Flash. However, on that exact hour the moon was not as welcoming to the darkness. Even the shadows were now being swallowed by the unearthly pits of the night. The entire city was admitted into the dark ranks of hell itself. The only light allowed lingering was that of the Flash and the unknown white streak. Central City was obliterated by the trailing graphite of lights; never ending_ _— one prompted after the other._

_She was faster; Barry Allen knew that. But, as fast as Eleanor Winslow’s feet voyaged down the alienated, silent streets, her truest intentions were for the Flash to catch her. The woman wanted to feel the warm inky blood of his against her knuckles and to consume the harsh reverberation of his last breaths as the Flash’s life slowly, but assuringly slipped out of grasp._

 

_Eleanor's massive orbs of red glowed darker and far more sinister; they weren't like the Flash's. They withheld inhuman anger and detestation for the scarlet speedster, every fiber of the man’s being was demolished by her rage. He didn’t know, though. Barry Allen didn’t understand. But, he did it anyway. He chased. His rapid footing sped further behind the white streak of beaming lightning. He could hear her intense spurts of breath gather in her lungs and he reached his hand out towards the woman, just mere inches of catching her once and for all. At least, he wished it was that easy._

_Eleanor effortlessly vanished from the man’s fingery grasp_ _— quickened her pace down one of the permeating streets, swiveling around vehicles and people, but she made more than certain she didn't go too fast. Oh no, she didn’t want this game to end. Not yet._

_In the close distance, an abandoned factory warehouse manifested on the horizon upon the slope of the tarmac. It prompted the female speedster faster; to immediately lock a target over what appeared to be a deserted location; No people. No witnesses. Nothing, but the battle she knew would ensue between them. And, that’s what she wanted. She wanted to end it all right now. She had to, for her parents. Remembering their angelic sculpted features, the soles of her leathered boots lithered to an erratic halt as did the scarlet speedster shortly after — face to face, the speedsters rested quietly before one another; in watch of each other’s slightest movements._

_The Flash secured his steely, hazel eyes around the blonde in tight eyeing-grasp, his stare intensifying hotly, yet soothing once the speedster's vibration of her entire figure shortly concluded and her eye's dimmed to its traditional color; Barry Allen had never seen as much heat boiled into one’s eyes as this woman did. And, why? Why has this game of cat and mouth ensued between them? For what? Barry Allen demanded to know._

_“Who are you!” He inquired, the chords of his voice set to distortion._

_The woman said nothing. Silence was her answer. Barry couldn’t believe it; the one moment they’re eye to eye, face to face, and he is given absolutely nothing but the offer of silence. He assumed for so many months this was the mystery woman’s desire, that this was what she wanted. The Flash. To shoot him down. And now, she was playing at a different toon of the game?_

_A wretched toned scoff resumed from the man’s lips; no. “You may be smart and fast, but you’re a murderer! One day, that will catch up with you!”_

_Murderer? The woman’s eyebrows twitched thoughtfully and her upper lip snarled up to her grinding, porcelain teeth. His words were infuriating; she wasn’t a murderer. He was. He knew what he did. He knew what he took from her. She wasn’t going to allow him to play her, not like this. “That's what you never understood, Flash. I get what I want!” She simply seethed._

_“And what exactly did Richard Cale have that you wanted badly enough to kill him for it?”_

_His death was nothing she intended on. She didn’t know how he died, but she didn’t allow the revelation to move her features in an unwilling manner._

_“Information.” Eleanor stated._

_“A man is dead! And all for information?”_

_The Flash was incredibly small minded. For him to think it was just about information was even foolish of him; it was so much more than that. It was pain. It was vengeance. And by god himself, Eleanor Winslow was going to achieve it, and take back everything that was taken from her. “I wanted to know who the Flash was. Because when I kill you, which I will, I want the people around you, I want this city to watch as the Flash goes down to the fastest woman alive!” She was the fastest. Not him._

_The Flash shook his head as his lips fumbled with words of denial. “ **Not for long**.”_

_Barry's foot rapidly inched forward; his entire figure taking off into a full-on sprint. In the corner of her enhanced vision, Eleanor’s rapid perception calculated the Flash’s quick movement, but she didn't run. She stayed, awaiting. Their faces were unreadable, no fear, nothing but an invitational smirk. She stood strong despite how close he got with each step he took — five feet to one inch in a matter of seconds. She waited, and waited, and when it was time, Eleanor interpreted the flash's movements quicker than he was able to catch sight of her hands latching onto his shoulders._

_Her arms swung out, speed force enhancing her womanly strength. His body hustled through the air behind her; a cry of pain echoed through the chilly, thick atmosphere as his spine brutally clashed with the foggy glass of a nearby window from the warehouse. Glass exploded from his weight. Noise cackled through the deadly silence of the night._

_The Flash was permitted not even a breath or a gathering second, the woman knew only one would walk away unharmed; that was her, certainly. Quickly advancing on the scarlet fallen figure, she hoisted his bodily weight against one of the stainless-steel walls. Just as her tight balled fist came snipping across his face, Barry's head dodged to the side in one fluid, quick motion, and using his speed, he revered the grappling position; Eleanor now flipped against the wall and his hands bit into her shoulders harshly._

_“Stop this!” He pleaded._

_The irony; he didn’t stop when he murdered her parents. When she watched the entire scene play out before her eyes. She didn’t see him stop once. Which begged the question, why should she? The menace of Eleanor’s eyes only darkened; anger. So much anger. It prompted her eyes hot, like molten volcanic rock. She dipped the hot stare profoundly into his soul; she wanted him to feel the heat._

_"Not until your dead!” It came out like an animalistic growl._

_A clean cross was finally achieved against the bridge of his nose; the blurry speed of her fist hit him twice. Flesh squelched under her knuckles. She could feel the warm blood on her skin. More, she thought. She wanted more of it. Tight clasped hands around his body, Eleanor lifted his entire frame above the average human height; the Flash's figure traveled swiftly through the air, but unfortunate for the woman, before the Flash clashed against the warehouse wall again, his feet pushed perfectly off the steel._

_However, his efforts were too slow for the woman’s perception and her eyes immediately perceived sight of his sly movement. Speed force melting into her veins, she propelled the speed of her boots against the steel wall behind her; she raced up as if it was her own gravity holding her in place and she launched her feet off the wall as well. Her hands remained reached out as Barry's body propelled closer to the ground, and before he could hit, Eleanor snatched his waist into her arms. The unexpected grip caused the both speedsters to topple to the dusty pebbles in a fury trade of fists and kicks. The receiving blows were hard hitting for the Flash and agonizing on the knuckles of Eleanor, but pain always came with great reward._

_Blow after blow; the Flash was no longer able to contain this woman’s immense rage in just a battle. More pain-induced blood slithered from the gauged flesh of his upper lip. It was all too much for him; his team had already told him to get out there. Maybe he should have listened the first time. Every time he would attempt to the slightest strike, this woman’s incredible speed would either dodge or modestly man-handle him onto the ground once again. The battle was a swirl of fast dancing lightning sprawling over the tarmac. Nowhere to go and nothing else possible to do, Barry Allen did the one thing he’d been doing before he got his powers; he ran._

_A trail of beaming lightning was all the blond woman could perceive through the murky night before the Flash was completely out of her sight._

_An action that might have saved his life that night._

* * *

 

      

 

** PRESENT DAY   
**

 

 **THE SUN DECSCENDED** lesser in the sky of Central City, the sunshine had lost its illumination and the colours of the amber-plum waves began to settle in. But, no matter how low the sun sank or vanished completely, those tiny factors didn't break the business of the _Downtown Photography Center_. Matter of fact, Business usually escalated around the period dusk fell; worker’s eyes had been glued to Central City’s nightly news that was frequently displayed on the flat screen TV monitors set throughout the two-story building. Right now, there wasn’t anything special being given; except some spread broadcast about her old home city’s vigilante, The Arrow. That was a typical Monday.

 

The air was dry and smelt of raw expresso beans — even more of a rare reason why Eleanor Winslow had discreetly decided to take a few minutes off writing a statement and rested the side of her head jadedly on the work shift desk; back prompted away from her co-worker’s view. She didn't want the attention drawing on her, she didn’t need it. But, it wasn’t like she had any friends there. There were strict rules she abided by; no relations outside with anyone, _nobody_ , except her partnership with Dimitri Wilson; best friend, her partner in crime and no other than — Slade Wilson’s son.

 

Their relationship? That was a whole other story. All Eleanor really knew was that he didn’t talk to his father. The obvious attention of the Arrow that would bring. The subject was never touched ever again.

 

Eleanor silently picked at the golden-crescent Flash ring with her nails that was securely enveloped around her middle finger in desperate hopes time would fly; her gaze wandered to the small hands of the clock head over the entrance of the building. 8:45 P.m. At least her shift would soon be over. With one small gesture, she could be in her very own Flash suit, permeating the dark streets and searching ruthlessly for the one answer she craved; Who was the man underneath the mask?

 

It could be _anybody_.

 

It could be the man in the suit and tie that casually worked behind her. He would always try to talk to her every now and then, attempt to hold up a conversation long enough to ask the question of a date. It could be him, or the lady to the left that looked absolutely drained of energy. The enticing thought propelled her head to slowly rise off the hard surface and gape at the desktop monitor through her prescribed lenses, where newspaper articles of the Flash's appearances were reported. All the information clogged her screen and overlapped her brain, wordily circuits occupying her cognizance. The illumination of the screen scorched.

 

Eleanor flipped the tight-rimmed glasses from her face and softly rubbed her eyes, certain they were a stinging red now.

 

“Winslow! What the hell are you looking at?”

 

It was the deep, throaty voice of her boss; Issac Metler.

 

Her shoulders rattled slightly, her entire body immediately but casually spinning in her chair to squint up through the lenses of her glasses. He was this fairly sized gentleman of translucent ebony complexion. His skin was like embodied glass, reflecting a _stunning_ gleam every time he would saunter by a replication of light. He kept tight in a personally tailored all black suit, the buttons of the white dress-shirt underneath undid to reveal a smidge of the top of his tight chest. He was this gentleman woman constantly wondered why he had not took up the profession as a model — he surely could be one, Eleanor agreed.

 

Per usual Issac was always in this joking, lively manner and his voice pitched with an untouched enthusiasm, however now he didn't sound like neither of those things, which either meant you were in deep trouble or you were certainly getting fired at that very second. Right now, Eleanor didn’t want to know either.

 

“Issac—” Eleanor rushed to shove the glasses correctly onto the long bridge of her nose, and then rather slowly, perceived what she had just uttered, voice quick to correct. “I mean, boss—Issac Boss—” _Shit_ , she coughed. “Is there a problem?”

 

Gradually, and to minor surprise, Issac began to humor the woman’s corrections with a frail chuckle, whilst shaking his head and grinning his porcelain smile. Eleanor thought she must have sounded like an absolute fool; she pushed a coolly toned, tight laugh and nodded at the humor. But, within her face was as _dead_ as the beat of her heart.

 

“Obsessed now, are we?” Issac said, appointingly.

 

He was looking behind her.

 

Eleanor frantically spun back around to the fully-powered desktop screen, mechanics of the chair screeching in frantic. Small sounds of possible responses tangled in the back of her throat, her astounded mouth trying for any words. Anything that would make sense. “I-I wouldn't exactly say obsessed…” Relief profoundly laced her words when she finally did erase all the Flash material that had been put on notice; she spun back to meet the soft, coffee tint of her boss’s regard.

 

His hands were up, submitting. “Hey, no way am I trying to judge. The man’s done some pretty incredible things for this city, some we are very fortunate for. Much more than I can say about this …” His hands were waving around, mind searching. “… _white streak_.” The way he had thrown the alias in the air, so carelessly, like trash. No need to ask, Issac’s thoughts on the new speedster were explicitly expressed.

 

Eleanor’s heard the name _plenty_ of times, but there was always a distaste for it. “Don't you think calling her 'White Streak' is _disrespectful_?” She asked, severely insulted. Part of her wanted to slap the taste of the name so far from his mouth — from everyone’s mouth.

 

“Okay,” He seemingly considered, “What do _you_ prefer we call her?”

 

She didn’t have to dwell on it. “ _The Silver Flash_.”

 

Issac couldn't hold in his amusement on the entire subject, his face fidgeted from his attempt to not laugh. Eventually he did; a soft chuckle. “Okay! Okay! The Silver Flash—you can call her whatever you want as long as you complete this job I'm gonna offer you.”

 

Those last words reeled Eleanor in.

 

Instantly, she asked, “What kind of job?"

 

“Your one of my top photographers, the best I have. Everyone knows about the white streak or how you like to call her, _Silver Flash_ ,” He made a face, “And so far, none of my crew can seem to snag a picture of this mystery speedster. But, El you can.”

 

Her and Issac were so comfortable around one another, nicknames were an any day thing.

 

“Just a picture?” The irony crafted her grin, “Doesn't seem too hard.”

 

“I hope not. I'm putting a lot of faith into you.” Isaac's words were sincere and she could easily read it in his emerald, glowing irises. “Don't disappoint.”

 

It was the last thing said before he strutted away; a swag of pride and currency.

 

Eleanor was once again left alone in the stillness of her own workspace and it welcomed her with a soothing feeling, certainly relief above all. The period of her shift had finally ticked down and it was in a matter of seconds she had begun to fumble with the scattered items of her desk and made it her last duty to organize before leaving; proceeding to stand, she fixed her fedora hat over her blonde curls and fiercely pushed her arms through the dark sleeves of her blazer. Just as she was ready to commence in walking off — her leather messenger bag already hung heavy on her slender shoulder — from the peripheral vision of her eye, a feminine figure had stuck out like a sore thumb in one of the aisles of hastening co-workers whose shift ended around that time as well had begun to slowly advance towards the edge of her desk; whilst picking up some trash, all Eleanor had seen was a pair of slick legs in white dress slacks.

 

The ebony-skinned brunette smiled. “Don't tell me you were going to leave without letting me know?”

 

At the immediate pitch of the soft voice, Eleanor had risen her lenses to the slender, high figure. Her eyes could tower quite a bit, about half an inch from those dark chocolate eyes which possessed Iris West’s long face — her grin was so premeditated, and choregraphed Iris believed the gesture of _kindness_ without hesitation. But, that kindness Iris West so easily believed had been a part of a formulated façade Eleanor Winslow knew how to craft into absolute perfection.

 

Iris West — a woman she had known for quite some time in Central City, she did not bother counting — was merely somebody she had befriended under the convincing suspicion of the reporter _potentially_ knowing who the man was underneath the mask, however she didn't expect to grow as close as they did over time and for that main reason, Eleanor had a faint hint of remorse towards the journalist. Just a smidge.

 

“It's good to see you, Iris.” Her arms clasped briefly around Iris. “How's Eddie?”

 

Her faded softly around the edges of her red lipstick, the slight thought of his touch reflecting like a wild fire in her eyes. “You know—he's been amazing. Everything finally feels right where it's supposed to be and …” She took a moment to inhale, though Eleanor has never justly loved a man enough to _know_ or understand the passion underlying her words _._ “… I think we're ready to take things to a more _official_ level.”

 

Eleanor was genuinely taken back, a dash of excitement which didn’t fully reach her eyes. “That's uh, amazing Iris!” She scratched her temple awkwardly, she didn’t exactly how to feel. She said the first words any normal person would say, “I'm happy you finally found love and you know I'll always be here to support you through it.”

 

“Awe, thanks El. But—” Eleanor hated when Iris chose that word. “—I didn't come here to talk about myself or Eddie.”

 

She slowly nodded, confused but she had bobbed her head for the heck of getting Iris through whatever she had to say _quickly_ ; time was wasting every second she talked more and more and Eleanor had to be out on those streets, finding the Flash. “Can it wait? It's getting late and I have to head home.” She tried ushering past, but Iris’ defiance was more difficult than any battle she has fought — she held out a strict hand, one which Eleanor wanted to slap away with distaste.

 

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re always home—you need to loosen up and have some fun.”

 

“Iris—”

 

“Nope,” She shook her head. “My friends and I are going to CC jitters tonight, and you’re coming—no _ifs_ , _ands_ or _buts_ , okay? You need to mingle and get out more. Break out of that socially awkward shell.”

 

Eleanor scoffed, she was not socially awkward. She just did not like people very much.

 

But, Iris’ slender hand was already hooked on the forearm of her blazer, heaving her through the doors of the _Downtown Photography Center_. The chilly air hit Eleanor like a hard smack to the face and she grimaced. She felt like a child being dragged away by a mother, her back hunched from being roughly leveled forward; Iris’ grip was quite resilient and stubborn and the stem of Eleanor’s designer opened-toed heels dug into the pavement of the sidewalk.

 

“I don't think this is a good idea …” Eleanor tried protesting, frowning.

 

“Stop whining, it's going to be fun.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **RAMBLING THE STREETS** of Central City throughout dusk, when the sun had completely shifted into a beautiful white pearl was a dangerous choice for females. The obscurities were dark unlike anything else, and like that they were your friends too, but none of the alliance could perchance save you from the hazards which prowled just about anywhere. Every corner turned had a high probability of a rent-a-thug or a thief jumping for you.

 

However, Iris and Eleanor's voices occupied the lonely, isolated streets and cold sidewalks with hilarity and womanly jeer, more than certain a gesture to ease their mind — precisely Iris’ fears — as they ambled slowly north in the direction of CC jitters, though pursuing the streets at night was sure to be a beckoning call for _unwanted_ attention. 

 

“Wait, your dad's convertible? That's insane!” Eleanor humored her best friend's story; a genuine laugh coming from her throat.

 

Iris had just finished telling the tale of the night her and her other best friend, _Barry Allen_ , wrapped her dad's convertible around an oak tree on Fairmont Drive. It was incredibly funny to hear, yet utterly stupid.

 

“Barry and I had got into so much trouble that night. From that day on I was never allowed to drive my dad's car again.” Iris’ eyes were tightly wrinkled in the corners, and she swallowed the remaining laughter drying her throat — slowly her voice straggled off to an imploring suggestion, “You just have to meet him.”

 

Eleanor frowned, “I wish I could, but I'm always busy with work. I barely have time for friendship.” It was the truth, and looking over she suddenly perceived the final trace of humor fall from Iris’ long face completely.

 

“We sure became friends just fine.”

 

“I know, but—” She stopped talking, all of sudden her ears listening onto loud rustling distanced far off into the darkness of the nearby alley way between a residence building; clashing of trash cans and the grunting of a manly voice. Her heart began to slowly beat faster under the strong wariness it was a stranger intending to unleash harm on them.

 

However, just as she seemed to stop entirely in the middle of the sidewalk — the sharp clacking of her heels reduced to silence — the sound became faint to nothing at all. It took a complete second, an instance where her eyes scurried along the rest of the sidewalk behind them and in front, then across the street, expecting to find somebody, but in its place her wide-eyed gaze had fallen upon something which wrenched her throat of a wordy reaction.

 

A pair of sinister red-highlighted orbs stared back at her from across the street.

 

“Eleanor, what—”

 

“Shh …” She dismissively waved off the woman.

 

Shadows suppressed the individual; she tried squinting her lids, eliminating her lenses to try and see _harder_. But all Eleanor knew at that moment was that the stare had become extremely eerie and testing to gaze into. It felt … demonic.

 

Suddenly, Iris's voice ripped through the chilly air in a form of a scream. It deprived Eleanor's attention from the pair of glowing eyes, where her snapping gaze had fallen on her best friend, who was the one who persisted to shriek in fright. She didn’t understand what it was until she looked over to the man who was now standing before them; frantic, dressed nonchalantly like a _regular_ citizen, and a plastic attitude that told any _other_ person not to screw with him.

 

A gun was firmly twisted in his hand and pointed directly at them both.

 

Were they being robbed? Eleanor chuckled inwardly.

 

“Give me all your money!” The robber necessitated, waving his gun for the third consecutive time. Iris flinched at his tone, “ _Now_ , or I swear I'll kill’ya both!”

 

Iris pleaded with her outward hands of submission, her light brown eyes darkened fearfully. “Okay, okay! Just put the gun down …” Steadily, one her shaky hands had begun to near the zipper of her purse — she seriously intended on conforming, though all Iris could think of was what her father would say or even _think,_ it almost made her want to cry a little. However, before Iris even had even the slightest chance of drawing her money, she heard the hard-metallic slap of something in the air and snapped her eyes up so incredibly quick she gasped; Eleanor had back smacked the pistol from the man's hold and hurled her foot into his large chest. Iris cried out as the man bared to have an insolent heart, swinging out a closed fist — the perception of a speedster had been a remarkable gift, it was all so _exhaustingly_ slow.

 

She wacked her fist across the bridge of his nose. The combination of rapidity and the strength of the speed-force throbbing in her veins had been _more_ than enough for the man's body to _completely_ and numbly collapse on the concrete, which Eleanor viewed in such perfected ease though Iris’ loud rattle of shock nearly caused her to jump.

 

“You never told me you knew karate!”

 

Rather than checking on Iris, Eleanor first priority had been already initiated in her chaotic thoughts and she whipped her head back across the street; the pair of glowing eyes had _disappeared_. How was that even possible? Was someone watching her? Reeling her shoulders back, Eleanor did not quite adore the notion of someone’s eyes unwantingly possessing her from the shadows, when she was least expectant.

 

Quickly, she found Iris’ arm.

 

“Let's get out of here. _Now_ , Iris!”

 

Iris quickly nodded, chasing carefully behind her friend’s unpleasantly inhuman clutch. She could feel their feet pelting against the shadows of the sidewalks, though Eleanor's head of curls still managed to slither over her shoulder moments later just before the sharp turn, towards the site she had primarily noticed those eyes.

 

What the hell was that?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **CC JITTERS NORTHSIDE** of Fairmont drive was a calculated non-tiring dash from Bob’s Oil factory warehouse she lived in, she counted each concrete box shaping underneath her feet, anything to keep her self-conscious cleansed of misfortune as she walks besides Iris, quiet but observant. She had taken the lead minutes ago, where the streets began slowly becoming more _alive_ with the soul of Central City, more of what Iris West was so, so use to; the city life. It felt alienated to hear so many _contented_ , distinct voices all at once, like a swarm of buzzing bees — the irritated kind. But Eleanor puts her back to it.

 

It takes her ten minutes to decide they had arrived, safely in one piece she realizes as she looks down at her still-pressed blazer then back up again. The tiny café huddles despondent among the vast, wide-eyed metropolitan buildings and the logo sign — bold white glowing letters — beamed friendly to new eyes, but she squinted behind her glasses nonetheless. Dozens of shoppers of Fairmont rushed by it, by _her_ , and she tried to move against the heavy flow. Chatter filled her ears. _Why were there so many people_? She wanted to cringe feeling the arm of a shopper brush her, and she shrunk against the cloth of her own blazer.

 

Relief touched every inch of anxiety within her when Iris had finally come to a solid halt before the long, glass doors. The glass was transparent and clear; she could see within the café and suddenly feeling the frigid air smother her like almost a shove to get moving, she wanted nothing more than to indulge her cold figure in the heat she knew lingered inside from the working blaze of ovens and the brewing of coffee machines.

 

The half-dozen customers glimpsed up at the sound of the door opening, heralded by a cold breeze of wind. Again, Eleanor wanted to shrink, but this one time _she_ was the one to quietly pursue after Iris when she was the first to rush forward into the well tan-lit interior. The customers returned to their conversations as the doors swung closed and the breeze dialed down.

 

“Don't be shy.” Eleanor heard Iris say, but all that seemed to ring through Eleanor’s mind was the repeated mantra of _never, never, never_. “They’re going to love you. They’re really nice people.”

 

Because if Iris said it, it must be true.

 

She rolled her eyes in the shadow of her fedora.

 

Eleanor digs her heels in and discreetly strides into a slow-paced walk behind Iris as she avoids eyes like she has always done and nears a café tabletop in the middle of CC Jitters — now _everyone_ could see them — two tables turned to look at her. She’s barely aware of practically everyone gathered around on stools, the laughter filling her ears in a mix of American male and female voices, she’s all resistant to it, for she remained hidden behind the shoulders of Iris. Perhaps out of curiosity, she pulls from behind and shakes her fedora off into her hands, where her curls bounce alive once again with volume and like too many countless times before, she is smiling at the strangers; a woman with ecru-brown waves, a man with untidy shoulder-length hair which fell just above his pixels gaming t-shirt — he is young, even _handsome_ — but never the less, her eyes don’t fondle his face for too long.

 

They are too busy finding the man at the edge of the table — someone Eleanor squeezed her eyes at —  a tall man, who quickly came across as a fairly good looking person at first sight. Hazel eyes — dark hazel eyes, and his eyebrows and hair are just the same. His complexion perhaps is a little more tanned than hers and his cheekbones secreted under all that flesh were tall, but his nonchalant conduct and his facial features sculpted together resembled much of _herself_. Uncanny to think of, but slowly the realization hurls towards her with such unstoppable rapidity she has no other logical choice but to suddenly pause completely as she _stares_ — this man must have been the guy Iris talked nonstop about; her best friend, _Barry Allen_.

 

And Eleanor had been right.

 

“ _Barry_! Oh, my god!” Iris cried out, falling into the long arms of the man she loved. Her hands are folded around the back of his neck, and she is staring up at him, seeing the shock registering in slow spurts of emotion. His hazel eyes are moving. He rubbed her back in a heartening, smoother touch before fully pulling away to take a deep look at her.

 

Eleanor watched him; she could read the sudden concern in his eyes like a book.

 

“Iris, wha—what’s wrong? You alright?” His voice is lenient, not coarse like she would have imagined.

 

“My friend and I were almost robbed by this guy on the street!”

 

Immediately, in an instant, Eleanor could perceive almost too _perfectly_ , the hazel eyes of Barry Allen fell upon her like a tidal of inquisitiveness but undeniable concern. He did not breathe for those moments, looking at her with strong-setted eyes, and she began to ponder to herself an interesting thought: did he always care about random strangers? But, he looks away.

 

Instead, the sandy-haired woman gasped. “Oh, my god.”

 

“Someone tried to rob you?” Barry asked, “Are—are you hurt?” His delicate hands are encircled around her slender arms, rolling up to the tense skin of Iris’ shoulders where Eleanor could see the strain of goosebumps under his touch — suddenly all she could think sinuously about was: was Eddie aware of the way Barry Allen touched _his_ girlfriend?

 

Iris shook her head sharply, she was contemplating so many emotions buddled in one, long sentence. “N-no, Eleanor stopped them—you should have seen it, Barry! She just beat the guy up like it was some cake-walk. It was _amazing_!”

 

Eleanor found herself smiling, just a smidge of confidence.

 

Barry didn’t seem to be expecting such an answer, gawkily nodding. “Well remind me to think of all robberies that way.” Barry lips slowly began to spread into this musing grin Eleanor was sure had fanned his features so many times when he talked his Iris West, but that’s when the man had decided to turn and Eleanor paused, again — he was standing towards _her_ , with his hand held propped out.

 

“Barry Allen. You must be Eleanor, Iris talks a lot about you.”

 

The moment of contact was enticing like none other. The fatal instance their skins had made the briefest of interaction, the _tiniest_ brush of fingers, a small lick of thundering electricity orange as the sun purged from the sole of their veins into their palms. It felt as strong as the speed-force which coursed through their body like a river of verve. Their eyes brutally met, suddenly aware of a thousand unexplained emotions transparently rushing through them and they equally jolted, gasping.

 

“Uh, was that supposed to happen?” The guy in the pixel t-shirt asked.

 

Contact was broke; staring had been avoided almost immediately.

 

Eleanor shook her hand at her side, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. Never had she felt anything so … _strong_ before.

 

“Eleanor? Are you alright?” Iris snatched Eleanor's hand into her palm, running her fingers across for just a few allowed seconds, before the speedster wrenched her hand apart like the trace of Iris flesh was on of pure fire and cleaned the tear which trundled to the bottom of her small chin.

 

Her voice was clouded, “Yeah, I’m good.” _It felt amazing._ “I think …”

 

The ecru-brown-haired woman had suddenly spoke up, snatching the attention of everyone’s eyes as she straightened in her seat. Her fingers, which were skinny and softly pained in rose, had been toying with the handle of her coffee mug; she seemed so unfazed when she commented, “Well, I think I'm first to say this night has officially started off to an _interesting_ start.” She lifted a considerate finger for a mere second, which Eleanor was sure had been pertaining to some of the thoughts circling in her mind — and to that, the blonde had instantly beheld the woman, frowning.

 

Iris said, “This here is Caitlin Snow.”

 

 _Catlin_ smiled upon introduction, a twirl of her fingers.

 

“And this over here is the one and only Cisco Ramon.” She indicated the prolonged hair fella, who had a goofy outlined grin for a couple of _long_ , enduring seconds. Dimples popped from the intense gesture, and somehow, she could tell he was not like many men in Central City; his timid nature was such a prevailing wave of dynamism.

 

She rose her hand at _this_ … Cisco guy, waving. “Call me El. It’s such a pleasure—” her words persisted in the direction of the cluster of friends as a whole and she shifted to shit randomly at the table; which happened to be directly across from Barry Allen, “—to finally hang out with some of Iris's friends. I haven't been the most open person as of late.”

 

Caitlin swallowed hard after a great, hot sip of her thick mocha latte, smacking her lips behind the blazing temperature which seemed to uncomfortably scorch her throat, “It's, uh, no biggie really. And if it means the same, it's really nice to finally meet you too.”

 

 “You know,” Cisco elevated his hand attentively, “Same over here.” He was smiling greatly once again the second Eleanor looked back over to him, immediately folding in on the arms of her blazer from the flush of red heating her body — he watched the avoidance of her gaze, and part of his smile dropped — he could not help it though, it had been a while since he met a good-looking female who was a _stranger_.

 

Silence existed for a couple of minutes, some _seriously torturing_ minutes Eleanor spent meandering the golden-black bangles round on her skinny wrist; looking up had slowly become too much of an exertion, too much _effort_ to meet everyone’s desiring, keen stares. All were waiting for the blonde woman to say something, if _anything_. Perhaps the Allen guy had enough of the lack of talking, because she heard him cough from his corner.

 

“So, Eleanor, tell us a little about yourself. Not that we don’t know tons already.”

 

“We feel as if we should practically know you by now, you know?” Caitlin added, laughing after another lengthy sip; it must have tasted really pleasant, because her mouth had been partially full of the hot liquid when she spoke. “Or did that come off a little _stalkery_? Not that it was my intention ...” Realizing how awkward she must have sounded, Caitlin took another _long_ , lasting sip of her latte, probably small drops of nothing, but for the sole sake of hiding behind the mug.

 

Barry made a face; one of substantial discomfiture as his face scrunched, “I … heard you worked downtown at the photography center?” Barry questioned, however it seemed more of a solid statement of knowledge. “Anything interesting you’ working on?”

 

His effort in conversation made her jaw shift, a grin gradually slithers amongst her calculated long features. Her arms slowly unfold onto the table, and she nods, “That I am, yes.” Eleanor quietly replies, her hazels progressing along his face slyly. “You see, part of being a photographer in Central City nowadays comes with a lot of beneficial, interesting perks. Business is boosting more than ever now that we have heard of this _Flash_ and this mystery woman battling it out in the streets. I mean I’ve even seen it. It’s insane, right?” She is softly humming a laugh in her throat. “And finally, I have this big promotional opportunity in the palm of my hands and my boss has asked of me to capture this much-needed image of this mystery _woman_. Nobody has really seen what she looks like other than of course the _Flash_ —” Every time she says his name, it drawls from her long tongue. “But I'm sure I’m not talking out of my ass, right? You’ve all heard of her?”

 

The cessation of her sentence vented countless cold expressions of silent bitterness and disheartening glowers she had thought they had much stomach to furnish, but she was oh-so-wrong and she was staring into the core of their hellish looks. She held much of it in only her two eyeballs, until Barry’s glower unexpectedly released like a lungful of suffocated air and his eyes shifted. Even Iris avoided eye contact upon Eleanor’s words, and that was when Eleanor finally put two-and-two together in the back of her head, and she reeled back slightly in her seat with the thought circulating: they did not approve of the _Silver Flash’s_ tendencies.

 

She strained to laugh, to facilitate the tautness in their faces. “Am I missing something?”

 

Caitlin, whose fingers were unbearably sluggish under a speedster’s perception, motioned to grasp her attention as her nails knocked against the glass of her mug, which worked with zero exertion. Eleanor had already been staring at her, but the other woman’s eyes seemed to fumble around the ground then back to her. “Not many people are too fond of this ..."Her lips had difficulty forming the words, all ushered into a quiet voice. “… mystery speedster. White streak, whatever you wanna call her.”

 

“The best Central City could hope for is that the Flash gets to her before she hurts anyone else.” Iris had chosen to say, under her tongue.

 

Caitlin retained her quiet tone. “And god knows nobody wants that.”

 

“But, you are coming tomorrow, right?”

 

Eleanor turned her head to Cisco, frowning.

 

“Of course, she is.” Iris pronounced through her tight teeth, grinning expectantly at the blonde. Her eyes read of ‘ _best friend’_ consequences if Eleanor rejected the invitation and believe me, on most cases she would — if she knew what they were speaking of. “We are all going may I remind you.” Iris nods, finality fierce in the strain of her neck.

 

Eleanor’s stare has no other choice but to dot around on expectation for answers. “W-what's happening tomorrow?” She asks almost in stutter, prepared to give that closing rejection itching in the back of her throat already.

 

“Girl, you live under a rock? Central City's annual Flash celebration!” He answered in a _duh_ tenor, smiling hard with a sense of fondness. “The flash is gonna be there and it will be epic, I guarantee you!”

 

“The Flash is gonna be there?” Her spine straightened, voice reinforced.

 

“Mayor is planning on giving him key of the city.”

 

Eleanor deserved that reward, not the _Flash_. Detestation simmered within her veins.

 

“You gotta come.” Caitlin pleaded.

 

Anticipation appended to the woman’s awaiting reply, and she looked around the circle of strangers turned possible friends — _friends_ , the keenness of everyone’s emotions swallowed her mind and she had no absolute choice of not agreeing to attend; Iris would have kidnapped her, and gods know she did not want that.

 

“Okay, I'll go.” She huffed.

 

Cisco's smiled danced _forever_ as he nodded, excitedly. His hand nudged her arm, to which she humanely leaned to the side, but in truth her entire figure was hard like stone from the pure prowess of her powers. “I believe this is a start to a _beautiful_ friendship. Toast to all.” He raised his mug of cheap coffee and shrugged it around the table for a simple clink of cups.

 

Eleanor gestured for Barry's steaming mug seeing as it was just sitting there, “You wouldn't mind right, Mr. Allen?”

 

It was a hilarious tease, but Barry just smirked, giving her a shake of his head. She took his cup by the handle, tendrils of hot smoke floating into her nostrils. The steam felt so nice swimming into her lungs, and she tasted the burning latte, before bumping Cisco's mug of glass. “To new friendship," she agrees.

 

 _Something_ about the young man seemed to grasp her eyes for a little longer than deemed appropriate and her eyelids narrowed, confused by what it could have been. She did not know him for too long — or at all. She only knew a _name_ and a _face_. Was it the way he seemed to carry himself; witty remarks and a sugary tone of voice that warmed anyone's heart? Her lips widen into a smile, and she wants to gesture towards him but the lurid chime of a phone ringing suspended the short-lived daze. Depressing the mug of warm coffee onto the smooth surface of the table, her hand ploughs into a small leather pouch of her messenger bag as she retrieved her cell phone, checking the caller ID.

 

 

It was Dimitri. If he had called it must have been important.

 

Sensing the shift of her figure, Iris looked up, curiously. “Everything okay?”

 

She nodded, holding up her finger, “Just give me a minute. I'll be right back.” Walking off into a more secluded, dark corner of the café, she raised the phone to her ear, “Hey, everything good?” She asked, her voice strictly below a whisper. She folded into the corner to lean up against the hard wall, hearing his ramblings.

 

“I got our next hit, but you’re not gonna believe who it is.”

 

Perhaps she was going to get her chase tonight after all.

 

“Try me.”

 

“ _Leonard Snart_.”

 

Simultaneously, the news anchor voices from the nightly news broadcast snatched her attention from the phone in her hand and she turned her head at the blunt utter of the alias _Captain Cold_. She tossed a hair behind her ear, out of her eyes. A news reporter, _Linda Park_ , described a jewelry store under siege at Uraine Avenue. Typical for a thief, especially a criminal like Leonard Snart, though Elanor pondered why Mick Rory had not been mentioned.

 

“Don't worry, I got 'em.”

 

Hanging up and hurrying back through the aisles of tables, she noticed majority of the group’s heads were bowed to the screen of their cell phones and caught up in whatever it was that was important in their _mediocre_ lives. She did not really care enough to ask or whatnot, and slid a couple of dollars for the latte she stole from Barry, in which he gazed up almost instantly, as if he perceived her hand before she even _thought_ about it.

 

“ _I gotta go_.” In unison, the words intertwined from Barry and Eleanor.

 

Eleanor shifts in her stance, feeling suddenly too out of place in the strange group. She quickly gestures apologetically to her cell phone, which she _confidences_ it is enough for them to buy one more lie from her slithering tongue. “Sorry guys, it's work stuff.” It came so easy from her mouth; the lying. She had perfected it.

 

“No, it's okay. Take care whatever you have to.” Barry said.

 

She nodded, but before she left she turned to ask one last question, “So tomorrow? Where and when?”

 

Caitlin sat up to look over at the blonde, “STAR Labs. Around the morning, maybe eleven o’clock.”

 

STAR Labs? Why would anyone go there after what happened several months ago? She didn't quite understand, but she took in the information anyways.

 

The two speedsters went their own ways, little knowing they would collide that exact night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was the first chapter? Can you all make your guesses? 
> 
> KUDOS! COMMENT!


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